


crowned with lilies and with laurel

by a_sinking_star



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Some angst, Team Dynamics, hints of pepper potts/tony stark - Freeform, hints of pretty much all the canon pairings, natasha still dances (well sometimes), other characters and relationships make cameo appearances, some bruce banner/betty ross, some peggy carter/steve rogers, steve as an artist, the other avengers have varying degrees of non-canon interest in the fine arts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_sinking_star/pseuds/a_sinking_star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this they all know: that when it comes to each other, they have barely scratched the surface.</p><p>(each of the Avengers has varying degrees of interest and/or talent in respective fields of the fine and performing arts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	crowned with lilies and with laurel

This they all know: that where Natasha grew up, to dance meant to breathe, and to stop meant to die. 

 

This they all know: that she has the elongated neck, upright carriage, and turned-out walk of a ballerina.  That she keeps her toenails painfully short, and that she never wears open-toed shoes in public because her toes are discolored and misshapen.

 

This they all know: that they should not play Prokofiev when she is around, and that she turns away whenever she hears Tchaikovsky played in shops or Martinů in subway stations. 

 

This they all know: that when she fights, there is a practiced grace to her movements that belies their brutal efficiency.  They know that that is how she was trained: to blend the creative power of art and the destructive force of death until she could not tell where one ended and the other began. 

 

…

 

This they do not know: that there is a pair of white satin pointe shoes beneath her bed.  That she has sewn a band of elastic near the heel with stitches so tiny they are nearly invisible, and that the ribbons sewn on with similar care have been neatly hemmed. That she has cut away the inner sole and broken the shoe where her foot would part from the sole. That she has snipped away the satin over the platform and crocheted the edges so that they will not fray. That she has lined up the pointe shoes beside a pair of tan canvas split-sole ballet slippers.

 

This they do not know: that she has never worn these shoes and does not think she ever will. 

 

This they do not know: that there is a grainy black-and-white photograph in her desk drawer that shows a slender, hard-muscled girl with hair the color of an open flame.  She wears a simple leotard whose wide neckline reveals the stark outline of her collarbones, rising from her chest like a bird in flight.  She is in mid-turn and her face is tilted slightly away from the camera, but something about the way she holds herself makes it seem like she might be smiling.

 

This they do not know: that although she can hold her liquor like nearly no one else she’s ever met, the bitter buzz of alcohol almost has the power to make her impulsive.  That the day after she dodges a bullet a split-second too late and feels it graze her ear, just millimeters away from her temple, she drinks far too much red wine; that when she is finished, she takes out the ballet shoes from beneath her bed. She pins up her hair and puts on tights and a camisole and a pair of old sweatpants, and then she takes an elevator to the eleventh floor when there is a small side gym with polished wood floors that they sometimes use for flexibility training.  There is no mirror and no barre and no music but it does not matter to her and it certainly does not stop her from dancing until her feet bleed.

 

This they do not know: that a few weeks later she walks into a shop on the outskirts of a newly rebuilt Manhattan and spends an hour wandering among the aisles.  She buys a deep blue velvet leotard embellished with an intricate pattern of cutouts—the kind of frivolous thing she could never have dreamed of wearing back when she woke up every day before the sunrise to train. 

 

This they do not know: that on that same day, from the same shop, she buys a new pair of white satin pointe shoes.  She cuts and sews and breaks them in and then leaves them beneath her bed, pristine and perfect and out of sight.

 

This they do not know: that she has never worn these shoes and does not think she ever will. 

 

::: ::: :::

 

This they all know: that in the Smithsonian exhibit dedicated to Captain America there is a single pencil sketch displayed behind bulletproof glass. The paper has yellowed and turned brittle, the pencil strokes have grown soft with age, and the whole sketch is slightly smeared.  But it is still a good enough likeness: a woman with long blonde hair and smallpox scars. Her aging face is pretty in a soft, faded way, but her eyes are prominent and intense and without a doubt her best feature.  This is Steve Rogers’ mother, whom he only knew as a very small child and finally drew once he was old enough to go to war. 

 

This they all know: that the man who drew this portrait had years of practice. That his fingers molded comfortably around the pencil as though around the familiar hand of an old lover. That his hands did not shake as he drew. That he loved both the woman in the portrait and the act of making her immortal.

 

This they all know: that Steve has the long, shapely fingers of an artist. 

 

…

 

This they do not know: that there is a cardboard box in the corner of his closet that contains quite a large collection of old sketchbooks and scrap paper. Some of it is from before the crash, recovered from the meticulous files SHIELD and the US government kept on him, or bought back from museums, or dug out of the piles of paperwork Tony Stark inherited from his father.  These old drawings are for the most part whimsical: make-believe hybrid animals, hulking ships with made-up names, strangers he passed on the street.

 

This they do not know: that most of the drawings are from after the crash. That these are almost exclusively portraits: Bucky as he once was, the Howling Commandoes young and vibrant, Peggy at every stage of her life.  He has searched through old newspapers and online archives and the papers she keeps in her bedside table so that he can know what she looked like pale and harried from the bureaucratic nightmare that was SHIELD in its early days, or five months pregnant with the curve of her belly just beginning to show, or with the first of her wrinkles carved into the skin around her eyes and mouth.   He draws these portraits as though he grew old alongside her, as though she was with him to pose for each one. 

 

This they do not know: that there are drawings too of those who are not aged or dead.  That he has sketched Tony’s darkening eyes, Bruce’s shaking hands, the tense set of Clint’s neck, Natasha’s body taut like a bow, Fury’s flared nostrils, Maria Hill’s tightened jaw.

 

This they do not know: that when he was a child he hoarded pencil stubs and the endpapers of books because there was no way in hell his mother could afford art supplies.  That although now he can pay for drafting paper and charcoal and easels and art classes, he always keeps a pencil stub in his pocket because he cannot help but feel that this too shall pass, and because he has learned the dangers of holding dear what he cannot carry with him in case of fire. 

 

This they do not know: that one of the few things that Peggy Carter has always carried with her, through kidnappings and bombings and car crashes, is a postcard he did in colored pencil, in another lifetime, showing a pin-up girl in stockings and girdle and slip with Peggy’s face and dark curls. It is undeniably she, as he knew her, with lips painted red, eyes glowing, and hair in neat victory rolls. Her pale arms are raised carelessly to frame her face, her entwined fingers hidden in her hair. A simple carnelian pendant he once saw her wear hangs on a slender gold chain between her breasts. The image is both tasteful and refined, but there is something undeniably erotic in the directness of her gaze and the curves of her calves and shoulders.   He was mortified when she found it by accident among his maps and papers, but she only slipped it back into its folder without so much as a change in her expression. The next day the postcard was gone; she never mentioned it, but in some strange way he was glad even then that she claimed it.  It was always hers by right.

 

This they do not know: that he wishes, with a fierceness that surprises him, that he had wrapped it up and given it to her, in person, like the most precious of gifts. 

 

::: ::: :::

 

This they all know: that Clint has several callouses on each of his fingers, and that not all of them are from guns or bows. 

 

This they all know: that Clint disappears, and often, for hours at a time.

 

This they all know: that Clint once worked in the circus, and that one learns many things from the circus. 

 

…

 

This they do not know: that there is a piano shop walking distance from the Tower that he patronizes.  The cluttered, dimly lit establishment boasts practice rooms that can be rented for a nominal fee.  Its proprietor is an aging man with a shuffling gate and eyeglasses that distort his milky, unseeing eyes.  He is too old now to play like he used to, although on good days his arthritic fingers are still nimble enough to pick out a few waltzes.  Clint remembers the man twenty years ago, when he played the piano as though his soul were on fire and only the music could put out the flames.

 

This they do not know: that this man used to accompany Clint’s circus act on a portable keyboard that was always just slightly out of tune. That when Clint's progress with his bow and arrows plateaued out because he could not make his fingers become any more dexterous, this man taught him to play scales, up and down and up and down the keyboard. 

 

This they do not know: that Clint does not know the proprietor’s name, and will not discover it until the man lies dying.  That he will then whisper it like a parting gift. That Clint will not know how to respond.

 

This they do not know: that he has taught his wife to play so that she can teach his children, in case he does not live long enough to do it himself.

 

This they do not know: that he practices late into the night, every night, because he cannot sleep. 

 

This they do not know: that when he does sleep, he dreams of playing the overture of Mendelssohn’s _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ while Natasha dances. 

 

::: ::: :::

 

This they all know: that books are constantly passing in and out of Bruce’s hands.  That he buys them from second-hand shops and digs them out of dumpsters and borrows them from libraries, often forgetting to return them.  That he is usually as careless about passing them on as he is about acquiring them; that he’ll leave them on the desks of Stark Industries’ employees or hand them off to beggars on the street, usually with a few bills tucked inside the covers.

 

This they all know: that there are a few select books he jealously hoards. That these books, when left forgotten at the breakfast table, are to be left undisturbed.  That one of these books is a well-worn copy of the Book of Psalms, read so often that it has nearly been memorized by a man they know is not religious at all.  That another of these books is not a book at all, but an expensive notebook with heavy woven pages edged in gold.  That this notebook is filled with tiny cramped handwriting they recognize from the notes and blueprints that paper Bruce’s lab.  That this notebook contains a lifetime’s collection of poetry, carefully copied down. That he favors Yeats and Millay.

 

This they all know: that on the inside cover of the Book of Psalms, someone has copied a Jesuit prayer in a woman’s careful, curving hand. That the prayer begins by claiming that _nothing is more practical than finding God; that is, than falling in love in a quite absolute and final way._ That the last lines of the poem are ever so slightly smeared from all the times he has run his finger across the words, tracing the path her pen followed a lifetime ago.

 

_Fall in love_

_Stay in love_

_And it will decide_

_Everything_

 

This they all know: that no one is ever to mention any of this.

 

…

 

This they do not know: that the notebook was a gift from his parents, given when he was in third grade and struggling through his class’ poetry unit.  Every week for four weeks they had to write a poem and turn it in; for Bruce it was pure torture and he was no longer a straight A student by the end of it. His mother told him that it would be easier for him write if he had nice paper to do it on.  It might even have been true, but rhyme schemes were still too much for him when he was eight years old. 

 

This they do not know: that when he was fourteen he tore out the first seven pages, which he had used up six years ago on his childish attempts at poetry.  He did it neatly, with a very sharp knife, so that there is almost no sign of the missing pages. On the eighth page, in careful letters, he copied out Yeats’ "The Second Coming". All throughout high school and well into college he repeated this pattern: writing irredeemably awkward poems himself, cutting them out of the notebook, replacing them with words written by those who had not been cursed with his inability to speak his mind.

 

This they do not know: that the first thing he did after recovering form his first transformation was dig the notebook out of the wreckage, brush dust and grime off the cover, and begin to read.

 

_The falcon cannot hear the falconer;_

_Things fall part; the centre cannot hold;_

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world._

 

This they do not know: that she heard him before she saw him.

This they do not know: that Betty was the one to pin up a print-out of "The Second Coming" in their laboratory, and that she was the one to give him the Book of Psalms. That she copied out the Jesuit prayer, and meant every word.  That she had not been particularly religious either.

 

This they do not know: that he no longer remembers how her name tasted on his lips, and that he does not want to be reminded.

 

::: ::: :::

 

This they all know: that Tony Stark is a collector. That like his father before him, he throws nothing away.  That despite his loudly professed lack of interest in art, there is a small fortune’s worth of sculptures and paintings accumulating in his various residences. That he is only peripherally aware of this fact, and is not above using the sculptures at doorjambs or throwing darts at the paintings. 

 

This they all know: that his indifference towards art is the perfect mirror image of his hyper-awareness of the people he cares about. That he is always watching his teammates, his eyes darting after them if they make any sudden movements. That he is constantly placing a hand on Pepper’s waist or brushing his fingers against hers.  That whenever he is in a room together with Steve, of whom he is especially protective, he unconsciously angles his body towards him, a planet in orbit. 

 

This they all know: that he is checking to make sure that everyone is still there, and whole, and has not left him.

 

This they all know: that he is sometimes (often) seized by the need to have, to hold, to cherish.  To buy himself just a little more time.

 

…

 

This they do not know: that distinct from the organized chaos of his offices and labs is a darkroom only he has access to. That although he is always photographing, be it with a smartphone or a tablet or a camera pen, his favorite images all came about the old-fashioned way.  That he is proud of the chiaroscuro of his first real photograph—his father’s hands, laced and linked and emerging from the darkness—and the penumbra of shadow that forms his most recent success—a shot of the trees in Central Park like lacework overhead.  

 

This they do not know: that he only rarely uses the darkroom, and that most of his photographs are not nearly so romantic. That he once took fifty-four photos of a hard-boiled egg in quick succession, each indistinguishable from the last. That he drives Pepper insane by photographing her face from truly weird angles.  That he has every image printed, and is prone to examining each of them, looking for something only he can see. 

 

This they do not know: that when he was nine years old, he wanted to be a photojournalist.  That he still funds a few scholarships for journalism students at various schools in the city. 

 

This they do not know: that he saw the picture of Natasha dancing long ago, quite by accident, while hacking a few SHIELD files for fun. That his Aunt Peggy once showed him Steve’s postcard, when he was young and hurt and angry at his father and she was trying to distract him.  _I used to look like that,_ she had laughed, and he had laughed with her.  Now he thinks of those two images and he wants to turn back the clock and start over with his teammates, shake their hands and say, _my name is Tony, and it’s very nice to meet you._

::: ::: :::

 

This they all know: that where Thor comes from, singing is as much a part of a warrior’s life as bloodshed.  That he and his comrades-in-arms have celebrated their victories with both ballads and Asgardian mead.  That in their world, a fight may begin with a battle cry and end with a howl of grief or a grunt of pain, but there will always be music afterwards, even if it is a funeral dirge.

 

This they all know: that he possesses a fine baritone, well-practiced and often put to good use.  That he sees nothing at all unusual in singing in the shower or introducing them to the Asgardian equivalent of pop songs at the dinner table. 

 

This they all know: that although he is still bewildered by cell phones and television, he approaches music on Earth with open-minded fascination. That his tastes span eras and genres, from musical theatre to punk rock. 

 

…

 

This they do not know: that when he and Loki were small enough to be afraid of the dark, they fell into uneasy sleep to the sound of the same lullabies. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> title from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Dirge without Music". The prayer referenced in Bruce's section is "Fall in Love" by Fr. Pedro Arrupe; the poem is "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats. 
> 
> Also, if anyone is interested, the real photographs that (sort of) inspired the descriptions in Tony's section are by Tomasz Trzebiatowski.


End file.
